


A whole lot of digging

by headless_nic



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fifth Sequel to: The Apple Thief, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 15:30:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17286677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headless_nic/pseuds/headless_nic
Summary: An interesting discovery while digging a well reveals something about Aldwin, Sherlock had, as yet, not known.





	A whole lot of digging

**Author's Note:**

> For Max

A whole lot of digging

"Sherlock, have you finished your chores?" Aldwin asked his nephew who currently sat bent over a book of fairy tales, thoroughly engrossed by it.

The young man had to smile. Where before his ward had always insisted that reading was the most boring of past times, suddenly he had found that perhaps it wasn't so very bad after all and the result was, that now, well, whenever he was not at school or up to some kind of mischief or other, he now sat with his nose buried in a book. 

"Hm," was all the reply he got as the child turned yet another page.

"Knock, knock, is someone at home?" Aldwin laughed, literally knocking against the boy's forehead.

This, at last, got him some attention and with a confused expression little Sherlock Holmes asked: "What?"

"It's 'excuse me', Sherlock... - I have asked, whether you are done with your chores or not."

"Oh, well..."

"I take that as a 'no' then," the young uncle grinned wryly, ruffling his charge's hair. "Come now, once you are done with them, you can read as much as you like and if you don't dawdle around as much as you did the last few days it won't take you more than half an hour. Now, be a good boy and bring out the ash."

Reluctantly the little tyke closed his book, marking the page carefully with a slip of paper and then got up to bring out the ashes from the kitchen stove to dump on an already substantial pile close to their vegetable patch. Darn, it was really windy! He had no sooner thought so when a gust of wind blew the ash right into his face. Bummer! Perhaps, if he had thought about his task instead of the story he'd just read, he would have realised that perhaps he should have stood to the other side when emptying the bucket. But alas, he had not and as a result, he now stood there coughing and as black as a chimney sweep. Emma would be thrilled, for sure. Yet, the story had been so very interesting and in all honesty, he could not wait to get back to it. Alright, he could well pass on the bit with the princess that needed to be freed from her imprisonment, but how the prince was trapped in a hole in the ground by the evil robber who had abducted said princess was quite thrilling. Though, of course, the prince should have tried to hunt down the robber because he was a bad man and not because he held his beloved princess captive... Adults were so weird when it came to love! And all because she had kissed him – once! (1) Really, he would never lose his head over a woman so.

But anyway, he needed to get back inside and return the bucket and own up to his mishap... 

And indeed, his uncle's expression turned to one torn between amusement and exasperation.

"Sherlock, could you please concentrate on what you are doing? It's not so very difficult, is it now?"

"No..."

"Good, and now wash your face and hands and see that the tinderbox is filled up and that there is enough coal in the coal scuttle in the sitting room. Have you made your bed?"

Had he? Little Master Holmes wasn't so sure. He might have, but it could just as well have been yesterday that he had done so... Oh dear!

"Then have a look, my boy."

Washing his hands, the little scatterbrain naturally completely forgot about his face, and what was it he had to do again? Ah yes, make the bed and then... Oh, shoot! 

Trudging upstairs he found he had actually made his bed in the morning, so much the better, though admittedly, it could not exactly be called neat. - And the chamber pot was empty and clean also. Good.

Ah yes, the tinderbox, that was it and the coal scuttle. When at last he was done, his face looked even grimier since he had wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his once again soiled hands. 

"Dear me, you look like a little gipsy," Emma laughed at seeing the child. "Now, Sherlock, could you just quickly help pump some water? I need to rinse some linens and soak them until Monday so I'll get them clean."

Grumbling Sherlock Holmes complied, asking: "Why are the linens always so dirty in the first place?"

"You tell me, Sherlock..." Emma smiled, handing him a wet washcloth indicating that at long last he was to wipe his face clean. 

As a result, the once white fabric turned to a smeary blackish-brown.

"See?" she asked chuckling, holding up the grimy cloth.

"Oops. Sorry."

"No, you are not. But that is quite alright, for little boys need to get dirty once in a while. It's just not right to have them neat and tidy all of the time, is it?"

Grinning Sherlock replied that it wasn't. 

"Now then run and have some fun. And thank you."

She needn't tell him so twice, for in an instant he had grabbed his book, reached for his jacket and was out of the door, rambling over to his favourite tree, climbed up it and once again began reading and soon enough had finished the tale and now sat, dangling his feet eight feet above the ground, contemplating. 

Hm, it was really interesting how this robber had constructed his trap... Was it really possible to dig a hole and cover it in a way that no-one would see it was there? It was worth a try, wasn't it? What if he would catch a robber that way? Defeat him with his own weapons so to speak. It would be positively ingenious. Tucking the volume into his pocket, the little rascal climbed down from his perch and began looking for the perfect spot for such an undertaking. 

The ground could neither be too hard nor soft so that the walls wouldn't collapse nor make it too difficult to dig a hole in the first place, that much was certain, and it needed to be in a strategically good spot. Ah, but of course! Taking a shovel, bucket and rope, for he was well aware that he would eventually need to get out of the hole himself, he began digging close to the little bridge that connected their garden with the grounds of Kerkhill Farm where he went every morning to get a pail of milk. He would just have to remember to walk around his own trap...

Admittedly, the task was much harder than he had imagined. Though the ground was reasonably soft so close to the brook, the first few inches had been compressed over the years, that he and his uncle had made use of this pathway. And by the time it got dark and he was called in for dinner, he had barely managed to get half a foot done. And still, there was no need to hurry, was there?

"So, my child, what have you been up to?" Uncle Aldwin inquired, looking curiously at his young nephew over his bowl of stew.

He knew full well, that when Sherlock was this quiet, that something was going on in the mind of the youngster, and in general it was better to be prepared for what would come next. But as it was, the only answer he got was that he had read and then roamed around the garden a little bit.

"Nothing more?"

"No..."

This answer again was met with raised eyebrows but as it was, at this very moment, the doorbell rang and with an exasperated sigh, Aldwin Holmes got up to answer the door and a moment later Mr Gifford stepped into the kitchen, a bundle tucked under his arm.

"Well, what gives us the pleasure, Gifford?" Aldwin asked, making space for him at the table and offering the man a cup of tea – or beer if he preferred.

The farmer declined both and then, with a deep breath answered: "I came here by recommendation of Reverend Whitwater, who said you might know what to make out of this, for you must know that I've been digging a well in one of my meadows for the old one had dried up... - Well, Jack Tull did. Took him on as a labourer."

He stopped and with some hesitation glanced at the eager face of the little tyke who was just as intently listening as his uncle and then at Emma, who, though less curious, was still interested enough to have stopped eating.

"Perhaps I should come back another time," Mr Gifford, at last, mumbled and was about to get up when he was stopped by his host who had been eyeing the bundle that lay now on the table.

It had a curious form, slightly domed, and yet rough somehow. Little Sherlock Holmes was really curious as to what it might contain. 

"I presume you have found something while digging the well?" his uncle at last inquired.

"I have. I asked Mr Whitwater to have a look at it, but as said he was of the opinion that you might be the better person to ask," and then leaning forward he whispered, though still audible enough for the curious little tyke to hear what he was saying: "I have found bones, Mr Holmes."

"Human?"

"As human as you and I, Sir."

"How do you know that?" Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself.

"Because of this..." Mr Gifford replied, finally opening the bundle to reveal a grinning skull caked in drying earth.

Emma squealed and jumped up from her chair, before taking a deep breath and sitting back down, while Aldwin looked interested and his nephew completely awestruck. Never in his life had he seen a real skull. It did look ghastly as the empty sockets stared emptily at them and yet, the mud that still stuck to it, gave it the appearance as if some parts of flesh were still attached. 

Pushing his plate aside, the young teacher reached for the grisly discovery to have a better look and then did something that his nephew thought utterly bewildering as he sniffed at the remains declaring that they certainly were not recent.

"How can you know that?"

"It only smells of earth and nothing more, consequently it must have lain in the ground for many years, though admittedly the brittleness of the bone would have been a good enough indicator for that as well. But this has been an elderly person, so I wanted to make sure. Bones get brittle with age, you know?"

"But dear me, Mr Holmes, how can you know that this was an elderly person?"

"The teeth, Mr Gifford. Look, the few that are still there are all but worn down and in some places where they are missing, the periodontium has filled with bone, meaning that they fell out during this person's lifetime. Was there anything else?"

"Yes... - this. Do you think this man died of an attack?"

"I'd rather say that this was a woman, actually, but no, the crack you see here has been most likely caused by Jack's shovel, see, the break is almost white instead of discoloured as the rest of the surface. So, what did you find?"

Reaching into his pocket, the befuddled farmer held up what looked like a circular piece of rusty metal.

"Ah, now this is certainly not recent, Mr Gifford. Do you know what this is?"

The bulky man shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"It's a fibula, a brooch if you want that was used to hold together clothing before the invention of buttons."

"Before the invention of buttons? Do you mean to say that they had to be invented then?"

"Just as the wheel had to be invented, Gifford. Yes, buttons only became common during the middle ages and rather late at that."

"How come you know all these things, Uncle Aldwin?"

"Because, before you came into my life, I was a proper historian, that is why."

"But were you not always a teacher?"

"No. When I was younger I was just as much of a jackanapes as you are now, always up to some mischief, sometimes alone, sometimes with my brother - and then I studied history and archaeology(2) before I became a teacher in the end – which I still am."

"And a pretty damn good one, if I may say so, Mr Holmes!" Farmer Gifford laughed, seeming somewhat relieved for reasons Sherlock couldn't fathom.

"Uncle Aldwin, what is an archaolist?"

"Archaeologist, Sherlock. Archaeologists are people who dig out ancient ruins and bones and on occasion even treasure to see how people have lived a long time ago."

"Is that important?" his nephew asked sceptically, wrinkling his little nose.

"Perhaps not, but it is interesting. - And, of course, we can learn from the past. Roman technology is legendary as is the Egyptian one and one can hardly deny that the Greek had a decided knack for science and mathematics."

Now everybody stared at him blankly until, at last, Emma got up to clear the table, still eyeing the skull with some contempt, clearly not liking it sitting on her neatly polished table.

"So, what do you suggest I'd do now?" Gifford finally asked, after accepting the cigar Aldwin had offered him.

"If you don't mind, Gifford, I would like to have a look around and then you can keep digging your well."

"Do you think I need to report this to the authorities?"

"No, unless I find, against all odds, that this was more recent than I initially thought and consequently might be a crime, for otherwise this body should have been buried in the graveyard. But I would be quite surprised if it were, truth be told."

"Ah, that is good to know. I have to admit that for a moment I was worried. For you must know that some years before you moved here, a man went missing and was never seen again..."

No-one replied to that and after finishing his cigar, Mr Gifford left again, leaving his macabre find behind. 

"Sherlock, could you please get my magnifying glass while I try and get this thing clean? And then we can have a proper look at it. What do you say?"

"Well, I say I rather have that thing out of the house. It's bad luck having dead people about," Emma remarked, though calmly reaching for her knitting after having washed the dishes.

"That's ridiculous, you know? It's not the dead we have to fear, but the living. But rest assured, I will take it up to my study after cleaning it," and with that Aldwin Holmes disappeared into the scullery while Sherlock slipped out through the front door to retrieve the magnifying glass from his uncle's desk in the small school just across the road.

It was dark outside and the wind had increased to almost a storm, chasing the rustling leaves down the grubby lane. Finding his way around in the even darker schoolhouse was not an easy feat, especially as the magnifying glass wasn't the only thing his uncle kept inside his desk. There was also an old battered looking opera glass, a compass, a set of nautical instruments, various measuring tools, endless scraps of paper, some pencils, slate pencils and pens, – ah, but there it was, at last, the magnifying glass, safely tucked into its leather pouch to protect it from scratches. Upon leaving he carefully locked the door again and was back even before his uncle was done with his own task, still gently scrubbing the dirt from the bone with, much to their maid's dismay, their vegetable brush, but eventually he was done and interestedly both nephew and uncle went upstairs, just as Aldwin had promised Emma they would, to inspect the skull properly.

"Uncle Aldwin, how could you say that this used to be a woman?"

"I think it was one, not that I know for sure. - A man's skull is rougher, especially above the eyes, my child, feel my own forehead, you can feel a distinct ridge there, can't you?"

Carefully the little boy reached out and was surprised to find that his uncle was perfectly right.

"And now feel the skull – hardly any ridge at all. I have to warn you, however, for there are instances when this rule doesn't apply, especially if the individual has been very young upon dying, for when you feel your own forehead, you will find that there isn't a ridge yet either. It only develops with adolescence and there is no way to say, whether a dead child had been male or female once its skeletonised."

"And the age?"

"As I've already said, this person's teeth have been worn down so far, that in the end, they could have hardly stood above the gum. What you see of our teeth is only part of it as the roots are stuck inside the jaws and in order to protect them, the gum grows a little above the roots. Now, these teeth are hardly half the size than yours or mine. And see, here, where some teeth are missing bone tissue started to fill in the cavity just as it would do with a break - now in order to do that, the person must have lived some years beyond losing these teeth. It is as simple as that, Sherlock."

"And here?" Sherlock Holmes pointed at a more distinct hole.

"Ah, there the tooth might have either fallen out shortly before death or afterwards. See, the teeth are rather loose, and with little force, I could easily pull them out."

"Like Mr Riley did with Mr Brown the other day?" (3)

"Yes, but even easier. - Which, by the way, shows, that you should always take great care of your teeth. A toothache can be hellishly painful."

"Uncle Aldwin...," the little boy started hesitantly. "I fear it is too late for that. This tooth is awfully wobbly already."

He pointed at one of his lower incisors looking sheepish.

Grinning his uncle replied: "That's because it is a milk tooth and is supposed to fall out to be replaced by your adult teeth. You see, you are still growing and remember Alfie last year?"

The little boy nodded thoughtfully and then smiled with relief, before reaching for the small piece of metal that Mr Gifford had left with them likewise.

"And what's with this thing?"

"As I've said, it looks suspiciously like a fibula, which is what in ancient times people used to close their clothes with. It will need a bit of attention to make it look like something again, but it is obvious to see that this particular one has been made at least in parts from iron. Gold doesn't rust, nor does silver or bronze, though the latter two do discolour over time. Yet this is rusty, consequently, it must be made of iron."

To his little charge, the thing looked nothing like a brooch at all, if he was honest.

"I know, my boy, that it takes a bit of imagination to see a fibula in this lump of rusty metal, but I have seen many of them during my time at university, some in worse shape than this and over time one develops an eye for such things. It is all a matter of practice, as it is with all things. If you constantly practice multiplication, at one point you won't need to think about it any more, and with recognising old stuff for what it is, it is pretty much the same – unless it is bent beyond any recognition. But here, this unshapely lump used to be the pin and this bit was the decorative part with the clasp, which is well hidden underneath all the rust, I dare say."

As the child, despite his eager expression began to rub his tired eyes, the young teacher decided to tuck his little tyke into bed.

"But I'm not tired at all!"

The yawn indicated otherwise and sure enough, after brushing his teeth with particular attention tonight, the boy's head had hardly touched his pillow when his eyes closed and his breathing became even, showing that already he was fast asleep. With a smile his guardian kissed his forehead and tucked the blanket around him before leaving his nephew's chamber on tip-toes, a small smile playing on his lips and lighting up his grey eyes.

xxx

The next morning dawned with the sun shining brightly and though it had gotten fairly cold, as yet there had been no frost and it was more the wind that made it fairly uncomfortable out of  
doors. It was still early, only just after breakfast that little Sherlock Holmes set out with his uncle to go over to the Gifford Farm to have a look at the very spot where the skull had been unearthed. It was kind of lucky that at present the school was closed due to a bout of chickenpox, a malady Sherlock had already suffered from when still very small and which now gave him the freedom to occasionally visit his sick friends. But not today. Today he was far too curious whether they would find something of any interest... - Well, and then there was the fact that though the school was closed for him that did by no means mean that he was spared from lessons. It was one of the decided downsides to having one's uncle being the teacher and that next year he would have to go to boarding school. However, since last night Sherlock had found once again, that there was so much more to the man who raised him and his brother than he had thought. A historian and archaeologist... Who would have thought? Not that he really knew what that meant, but it sounded interesting enough. 

With a rope, a shovel and pickaxe as well as a set of trowels and brushes and, unknown to her, Emma's bolter all neatly packed into his uncle's handcart alongside some sandwiches and a stoneware bottle of tea, neatly wrapped into three layers of felt, they trundled along the footpath Mr Gifford had shown them and after twenty minutes had reached the other side of the farmland where a heap of earth showed them where they had to dig.

To the little rascal, the meadow looked like any other meadow he had ever laid eyes on, but his uncle seemed to disagree.

"I wonder..." he mumbled under his breath. "Can it really be? No, surely not..."

"What is it, Uncle Aldwin?"

"Sherlock, do tell me, what do you see over there?"

"Nothing. Well, aside from a slight ditch that is, it looks almost like a circle, doesn't it?"

"That is exactly what I meant, my child."

"But what's a ditch got to do with the skull?"

"Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything, as yet I cannot tell. You know, an archaeologist is much like a detective, you first see what you have, assess the facts and then built a theory – though the one difference is, that one never can definitely prove one's theory to be right, other than a detective who might get a confession out of his suspect, for all the people one might ask, are long gone."

"Like that old lady?"

"Just like her. And still, she has told us quite a bit already, hasn't she?"

"Yes, but how has she died and why was she buried in a field and not in the graveyard?"

"Well, that is what we are about to find out. And though I have a faint idea, as yet, I would rather not theorise but rather gather some more information. You know, it never is a wise idea to start building a theory so very early on without having even remotely enough facts. It closes the mind instead of doing what is absolutely necessary – keep an open mind and built the theory from fact and not the fact from the theory like so many do."

The bewildered expression of the little jackanapes made the young uncle smile and ruffling his nephew's hair he said rather ruefully: "I am sorry, Sherlock, I see I am confusing you and that wasn't my intention. It is just that I have been missing a good dig, unearthing things that had been underground for centuries and sometimes even millennia. I did get carried away, forgetting that all of this is so very new to you."

"Yes, but I'm not stupid..."

"I didn't say you were, Sherlock. By no means actually. You are a bright little fellow and a very fast learner, and it is that which sometimes lets me forget how very young you still are."

"Young? I'm already seven and soon I will turn eight! - And go to school all on my own..."

"Yes, you will," Aldwin replied with a deep sigh.

A mere two months and Sherlock would depart for boarding school... - It was a sad prospect which both of them dreaded. But it was necessary. Emma already took great care that all his linens were in perfect order, that he had fresh stockings and a new dressing gown, but she, too, as of late seemed as oppressed at the prospect of the boy leaving The Meadows as either nephew and uncle. 

Ah well, there was little use dwelling on such gloomy thoughts, spoiling the few precious weeks they still had together, was there? With a slightly forced smile, Aldwin beckoned his little ward to have a closer look at the hole in the ground that was already there, neatly dug down a good five feet. To the boy's disappointment, it was completely empty and did look exactly as one would imagine the shaft of a freshly dug well to look like. Not another skull or even a trace of bones was to be seen.

"Well, what did you expect? We already know that they took out what they found, so first of all, let's map down what we already have and know – including the ditch, as slight an indentation as it might be, but now, with the dead grass, it is prominent enough. I dare say in summer we would not have seen it at all."

While Aldwin was drawing, Sherlock rambled around, thinking of his own little 'excavation' he had yet to complete and at last, his uncle was done with his task and called his nephew over to his side.

"So, shall we?" he asked, eagerly running his hands together.

"Sure, isn't that what we are here for?"

Laughing the young uncle replied that exactly that was the case.

"So, then let us secure the rope and lower ourselves into the pit. You are not scared, are you?"

"Of course not!"

This had come out with so much vehemence that his uncle could not help chuckling some more while firmly tying the rope to a peg that had been hammered into the ground, presumably by Jack Tull when starting to dig the well. Pulling at it, it didn't budge at all and even when he climbed down first to catch his nephew should he fall it stayed put.

Whatever Sherlock had thought, he had not imagined from looking down into the shaft, that it would feel so eerie inside of it. The earth was damp and smelled musky, and the whole space felt quite claustrophobic if he were honest. 

"You look sceptical, my boy. Are you alright?"

"Yes," was the little rascal's tentative answer.

"Ah, you will get used to it soon enough. So, have a look, and tell me what you see."

Puzzled Sherlock Holmes replied that what he saw was earth and a couple of pebbles.

"Yes, but can't you see that the earth is in layers? See this layer is much darker than this one and this has more pebbles in it than the other."

With some surprise, the little boy realised that that was true. The well-shaft almost looked like one of Emma's layered cakes.

"Have you any suggestions why that might be so?" Aldwin carried on, lighting the lantern he had taken with him and kneeling down, though it made the tiny space even more crammed. 

"No...?"

"You see, earth tends to build up over the years. Leaves turn to earth, for example, and when layer after layer covers the ground and rots, slowly but surely the ground rises."

"Really? I never noticed."

"That is because it takes decades, if not centuries to build up a substantial layer, Sherlock. Even should you come back here in, let's say thirty years from now, the ground around here will seem unchanged."

"Oh."

"So, this must have been where Jack has found the skull, for what do you see here?"

This was turning into quite a lesson, though a very interesting one, and for the moment, his trap was all but forgotten, as little Sherlock Holmes bent down to inspect a weird looking stone that seemed to stick out of the hard soil beneath his feet.

"No, this is no stone, it is a piece of bone – see, there it is damaged and you can see the structure within. So, let us try and pry it loose, shall we?"

As if on command, the little tyke reached out his hand and tried to pick up the bone, but it was too firmly lodged in the ground.

"Not so impatient, Sherlock. Here, let me show you what to do: You take the trowel and begin to dig around the bone, at some distance at first, for we obviously don't know what is underneath the surface, and then closer and closer, scraping away the earth until your find is free to pick up. See?"

They worked for a couple of minutes until they had managed to get most of the bone free and to the boy's surprise, it was, in fact, larger than he had thought. The small thorn that had been sticking out, had merely been a fraction of what had been still buried.

"So, and now we can be sure, that this is where the head had been, for this is without much doubt, the first of the cervical vertebrae. That is this part of your body."

Reaching up, Aldwin touched the back of his nephew's back to show him exactly where the bone once had belonged.

"Right, but where are the others?"

"Along this way, my child."

He indicated the direction and merrily they dug on until it was time to go home.

xxx

They went back several times over the next few days, but though it had initially been a very interesting study, the slow process of his uncle's work was eventually bound to have the little imp bored and set his mind to more interesting things – like his trap, that had been sadly neglected for almost a week now. And so it was, that the next morning his uncle made his way over to the Gifford Farm on his own and Sherlock stayed behind, first helping Emma a little, which was always rather fun, and then venturing outside again to, at last, carry on with his own project.

It was safe to say, that Sherlock made a lot more headway, especially since his uncle was too occupied to check on his nephew. Well, Emma was there, but she hardly ever strayed into that part of the garden unless she had reason to and that she actually had, she blissfully didn't know. 

The trickiest part was, to distribute the dug-out earth evenly so it wouldn't draw attention, but since the vegetable patch, that at this time of year lay barren, was practically right next to his pit, all the little tyke needed was a rake to even out the bucket-loads he dumped onto it. Yes, he had chosen the spot wisely. 

For four days he had been digging thus when at last he thought that it was safe to say, that the hole was deep enough to keep a robber from climbing out. Yes, perhaps it could be a little deeper, just to make sure, but then again, maybe the robber wasn't very tall and then it would be more than sufficient to keep him where he was. So, the only thing to do was to cover the whole thing with twigs and leaves and then hope for the best, namely to catch the evil-doer, whoever he may be.

xxx

"You might be interested to hear, Sherlock, that I have finished my work. - Which is quite convenient as from Monday on, school starts again. What do you say, shall I make a lesson out of it?"

Bummer! Just when he had become used to not going to school, it had to re-open. But that was how things went, wasn't it? Alas, since he had finished his trap it had become increasingly boring at home, for there was so little to do with Alfie and Janet still being on the mend. Oh, he had visited them, but they had seemed very dull indeed. Not that he held it against them, considering they were ill, but it didn't change the fact, did it? He never liked being ill either. There was nothing so irksome as having to stay in bed and twiddle one's thumbs.

Oh, his uncle still waited for an answer. Right...

"Yes, it sounds interesting. Will you bring the skull, too? I am sure it will scare the girls."

"And perhaps the one or other boy, too," Aldwin Holmes laughed. "But yes, I think I will bring it and then tell a little about the people who once must have lived here."

"What people were they?" 

As much as Sherlock had been bored by the slow process of the digging done by his uncle, that did by no means mean that his interest in the subject, in general, had ceased. 

Pulling out a small, shabby-looking leather pouch that once had held his tobacco until it had started to look too battered to be used any longer for that purpose, Aldwin emptied its contents onto the table, once more to Emma's dismay.

"Not some more bones, I hope," she sighed, though otherwise said nothing.

"No, no bones, but far more interesting items such as this."

Once more both nephew and maid were faced with an oddly shaped object that was impossible to make out.

"What is it?"

"A knife. And this is a glass bead – look how beautiful it is even now."

Even with trying very hard, all Sherlock could see was a dull looking pebble with a hole in the middle. 

"Oh come now, give me a glass of water, will you?"

Throwing the bead into the glass, slowly but surely the grime that had settled on its surface gave way and though it still needed some imagination, the pebble started to turn into something different entirely. As blue and yellow glass, surprisingly vibrant in colour, just like the stained glass window above the altar of Langfield's tiny church, began to show intricate swirls, Sherlock's jaw dropped and even Emma let her knitting sink down onto her lap.

"That can't be that old, surely, can it?" she asked, sounding thoroughly astounded.

"Oh, but it is. With everything I have found, it is safe to say that what lay buried underneath Gifford's field is indeed Anglo-Saxon and with that around eight-hundred to one-thousand three-hundred years old."

"So long ago?"

"Yes, so long ago, Emma."

"Uncle Aldwin, what is this?" 

While Emma was still recovering from her surprise, the curious boy had picked up yet another find – the last his uncle had brought home.

"What does it look like?"

"Like a cross."

"That is exactly what it is."

"But where they, not heathens?" Emma asked with some astonishment.

"Some, but most were not and many monasteries were founded during that time – Whitby for example -and since it is almost time for bed, I think as a bedtime-story, I will tell you of Saint Hilda of Whitby. - But only after you got changed and have brushed your teeth lest you forget all about it afterwards, Sherlock." 

And so, scurrying out of the kitchen, the little boy with some eagerness did as he was bidden, for if there was one thing he really liked, it was a good story, and his uncle was very good at telling them.

"A long long time ago, England was infested by snakes, and wherever one would tread, one had to be careful not to step onto one of them," he began, occasionally dragging at his pipe. "It was so bad, that people sought help with the church, however, it is said that only those with a pure heart can perform miracles and as it was, such a heart was not to be found. People have always been sinners, and never was that so apparent than in their search for one who could rid them of their plague. They had almost given up when they heard of one woman, who was said to be truly good, of whom it was said, that in all her life she had neither done nor thought evil and that was Saint Hilda. Now, Hilda, initially a princess, had become a nun when she was still a young girl and was, now a woman, set on founding an abbey. Though initially people had not been inclined to help her, when they heard of her reputation of being pure of heart, they promised to support her, if only she would get rid of the snakes for them. She agreed and began to search for a spot where she might build her nunnery, and yet there was no decent spot to be found, for wherever she turned, snakes had infested the area. So, she eventually chose the one that was the worst affected by the snakes, taking it as a sign that she had to overcome this evil, and it was there she had her enclave built (4)."

"But the snakes?"

"Ah, you see, she asked them to leave, which, of course, they refused, as they had done with all the other saints and sinners that had made an attempt to have them gone. But Hilda, seeing that one could just not reason with evil, just spread out her arms and turned them all to stone. - And even today, those snakes can be found around Whitby."

"Really?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know..."

"Sherlock, will you be so good and fetch my paperweight?"

"Why?"

"Just do so, please, I will tell you why in a minute. - Or however long it'll take you to get it."

Quickly rushing upstairs, it was barely a minute later that he returned with the curious looking stone in his hands.

"Now look at it and tell me what you see?"

"A snail of some sort?"

"Yes, it does look similar, I agree. - But, if I add this, what do you see now?"

Uncle Aldwin had drawn a tiny head on a piece of paper while his nephew had been away and now held it to the fossil in front of him.

"A snake!"

"And as it is, this stone I have picked up at the shore near Whitby. Now, does that answer your question?"

"No..."

"Good, I had hoped it wouldn't. This is actually neither a snake nor a snail, it is called an ammonite and it was an animal that lived in the sea hundreds of thousands of years ago – and even longer. But a couple of hundred years back, people didn't know what it was, and so they tried to find an explanation. It is a good enough one, and to them, it must have sounded quite logical, and yet, they were completely wrong. - And that is, why, when we have no evidence to support a theory, we never should just invent a nice story to make it sound plausible, for it is likely false. Obviously, none of the 'snakes' found at Whitby ever had a head. It did puzzle people, but to make their theory fit, they began to carve heads onto them."

"That is silly!"

"It is."

"Uncle Aldwin, when I am a detective, I will never carve heads onto stones just to make them fit my story."

"That is exactly what I wanted to tell you, my boy. And now, off to bed you go."

It was in bed that it occurred to little Sherlock Holmes that everything his uncle had told and shown him over the past two weeks, would be something that he could use his whole life. Well, once he was all grown up and a detective, of course. The thought was a bit daunting. If only he had paid more attention... Then again, to prevent crime was surely just as important than to solve one, wasn't it? With his mind thus reeling, it took some time until he fell asleep at last, and when he was woken up by his uncle the next morning, he was still very tired.

"Sherlock, the milk, if you please."

Yawning Sherlock took the pail from its hook right next to the stairs leading into the cellar and trudged over to Kerhill-Farm. It was drizzling and at last, autumn had arrived with all its force as the wind blew around his nose and ruffled his hair, chasing leaves across the garden. It was uncomfortable, to say the least. With his head bent and his thoughts engaged at what his uncle had told him last night, he didn't pay much attention to where he was going and he had almost reached the little bridge when suddenly the ground gave way beneath him. 

"Oh, no!"

There the unlucky fellow sat, having landed on his buttocks which sported quite a bit and stared up the neat walls of the pit he himself had dug. It was too unlucky and too embarrassing, really. But at least one thing was certain, the trap was deep enough to contain him with ease and though the roof had given way beneath him, most of the cover was still intact. Perhaps there was some reason to be proud after all. It had worked. Perfectly so. But how was he to get out? 

There was no way he could reach the top without using a rope or ladder, neither of which was at hand. The walls were unfortunately very even, he had seen to that, he would not get any hold there. He tried to use the pail as a shovel to make some footholds, but that didn't work very well either. Its shape was far from ideal and besides, he didn't want to scratch the enamel. And then the rain started pelting down, even more, filling the hole with puddles of water.

"Uncle Aldwin!" he, at last, cried, hoping his guardian would hear him. "UNCLE  
ALDWIN! - EMMA?"

Nothing. Of course, they were indoors and he was on the other side of the garden with shrubs and trees in-between.

Why did these things always have to happen to him? It wasn't fair. He tried so hard and always something had to go haywire even when he had thought of everything – well except that he had dug a hole in the middle of the footpath he used to get the milk. Already he saw himself staying there forever, starving, alone, scared. Yes, he was scared and he felt like crying. Well, no-one was here to see him do so, so he could just as well indulge in it a little, couldn't he?

He was still occupied with crying had even dozed off slightly, for his eyes felt so incredibly heavy all of a sudden it was so very cold, when suddenly he heard a soft whisper right next to his ear: "Come my child, I'll get you out of this mess and then tuck you into bed where you clearly belong."

"Uncle Aldwin? What are you doing here?"

"What would I be doing here? I have been looking for you, boy. It is almost midday and still, you have not returned home. Have you any idea how worried I was, when I know full well that you always can be relied on fetching the milk within a half-hour at most? It was Emma who suggested that you might sit out the rain at Mrs Summers' kitchen table, but when I saw that it wouldn't cease raining anytime soon, I decided to pick you up, only to be told that you had never arrived there."

"I'm sorry I had you worried, Uncle Aldwin. I didn't mean to," the young boy sniffed.

"I know. But for now, I think I better get us indoors. As it is, we are both soaked through and in need of a change of clothes, aren't we?"

"Yes, I suppose. But how are we to get out?"

Wryly the young teacher replied: "Ah, see, I almost fell into this hole, that has miraculously turned up in my garden and put two and two together. The washing line was conveniently close, so, I'll lift you out and then pull myself up. It's not as if I haven't done that several times over the last couple of days..."

"Uncle Aldwin, the hole – that was me..."

"Yes, I know."

"Uncle? I am so tired..."

xxx

"Bless you!" Emma exclaimed with a sigh, as repeatedly both uncle and nephew sneezed.

It had been three days since the little mishap with the trap, and as it was, in the end, it had not only been little Sherlock who had come down with a cold. If asked, Emma would swear that the smaller of her two patients was the easier one to take care of, but as it was, she wasn't asked. 

Instead, she sat down the teapot and the sandwiches on her master's desk and then left to take care of dinner.

"I thought school was supposed to start again, today," Sherlock mused, snuggling up to his guardian on the wide armchair in his uncle's study – or rather the room he called such, for though it contained many books all neatly lined up on a shelf – and, of late, a skull, it was a humble chamber with nothing more than a desk that had seen better days, a comfortable chair in front of it that could do with a bit of upholstering and said armchair alongside a rather tattered looking carpet right in front of it.

"It would have, Sherlock, if there had not been a certain someone who thought it to be a good idea to dig a hole and then fall into it," Aldwin sighed, though his eyes twinkled with amusement. "Pray, tell me, why did you do it?"

"Well, I read a story where a robber trapped a prince in a hole in the ground and thought that it might just as well work the other way around..."

"And did it?"

"No, I fell into it myself, as you well know."

"There is a German saying, Sherlock: Wer anderen eine Grube gräbt, fällt selbst hinein. You proved it to be true, indeed."

"But what does it mean?"

"That if you dig a hole for someone, it is you who'll fall into it."

"Is that another story like the one of Saint Hilda?"

"Yes, you could say so, my boy. But in this case, you can make it work for yourself. The actual meaning is, that if you try and be sneaky in order to gain something or other and attempt to trick a person, makes you vulnerable and what kind of people would usually try and be sneaky?"

"Thieves?"

"For example. So, you just have to find the hole they have dug and with a bit of luck will manage to steer them into it. And now, let's have some tea. Mrs Nichols will not be pleased if I stay sick much longer and I rather have you back in health as well."

 

A.N.:  
(1) No, this is not an actual fairy tale, in case you were wondering. I made it up entirely to suit the story.

(2) I did check and both subjects were, at that, time taught at the universities. However, archaeology was still a fairly new subject that developed during the 18th century after many wealthy people had started to be interested in digging up old stuff, so to say. These antiquarians were often anything but professional in their approach and often some damage was done and evidence warped to suit their theories. As such it eventually became necessary to take a bit more control creating the subject of archaeology - though for many decades hobby-archaeologists dug merrily on with little regard for historical accuracy or a will to preserve their findings.

(3) Yep, Mr Riley is the local blacksmith and as such, it was perfectly normal for him to pull out teeth... Nice to know that dentists have kind of developed from blacksmiths, isn't it? It kind of explains a lot... ;) (Though personally, I have met more amiable blacksmiths than dentists.)

(4) No, this is not an accurate re-telling of the St. Hilda legend, which mainly boils just down to her having turned the snakes around Whitby to stone, the rest was invented by me, save for that Hilda as the second daughter of the king's nephew, was born a princess.


End file.
